Poem
Mimi Khalvati
Night Sounds
Night Sounds
Night Sounds
I can hear myself moving aroundin the dark. My footsteps
lagging up the stairs. Now
I am quiet, listening to the light
that strikes the plant in
leaves of light at the turn.
An animal in the brush, large
enough to encompass a shuffle
here, a footfall there. Ooh.
I am lovely in my sounds.
I am moonlight and darkness,
death and habitation.
I thrill to the sounds my memory hears.
Sounds I have made in my life
through all my life – a child’s hand reaching
for water, chink of the glass
replaced. They moon about
the house, free to help themselves.
They do. How bright it is
in the fridge! You can hardly
bear such brightness. But where am I
between this soft thud
and the next? I am in all rooms,
on all stairs, lumbering and animal,
enough to make you worry
when a door clicks and I, on this side
or on that, forget myself. Hear that?
What? Nothing, I hear nothing.
Only the pillow crackling,
a rasp, a whistle of breath.
© 2010, Mimi Khalvati
From: Poetry Review 100:4 (forthcoming)
Publisher: Poetry Review,
From: Poetry Review 100:4 (forthcoming)
Publisher: Poetry Review,
Mimi Khalvati
(Iran (Islamic Republic of), 1944)
Mimi Khalvati was born in Tehran, Iran, but grew up in England, and has made London her home. She was educated at the University of Neuchâtel, in Switzerland, and at the Drama Centre and SOAS in London. Her poetry, published by Carcanet, has amassed critical praise and been translated into nine languages. The Financial Times named her latest collection, The Meanest Flower (2007), as one of thei...
Poems
Poems of Mimi Khalvati
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Night Sounds
I can hear myself moving aroundin the dark. My footsteps
lagging up the stairs. Now
I am quiet, listening to the light
that strikes the plant in
leaves of light at the turn.
An animal in the brush, large
enough to encompass a shuffle
here, a footfall there. Ooh.
I am lovely in my sounds.
I am moonlight and darkness,
death and habitation.
I thrill to the sounds my memory hears.
Sounds I have made in my life
through all my life – a child’s hand reaching
for water, chink of the glass
replaced. They moon about
the house, free to help themselves.
They do. How bright it is
in the fridge! You can hardly
bear such brightness. But where am I
between this soft thud
and the next? I am in all rooms,
on all stairs, lumbering and animal,
enough to make you worry
when a door clicks and I, on this side
or on that, forget myself. Hear that?
What? Nothing, I hear nothing.
Only the pillow crackling,
a rasp, a whistle of breath.
From: Poetry Review 100:4 (forthcoming)
Night Sounds
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